Unwritten Books 3 - The Young City (3 page)

But Rosemary was looking back across the culvert. She’d turned pale. “Peter?”

“What’s wrong?”

She pointed. “The city’s gone.”

He whirled around. “What?”

“The buildings have disappeared! It’s all gone! Peter, what happened to Toronto?”

THE YOUNG CITY

Peter looked from Rosemary to the horizon and back again. “It couldn’t have.”

“It has!” Rosemary jumped to see if her view wasn’t blocked by some rise. “Where’s the CN Tower? Where are the skyscrapers?” She turned and stared at the turreted building across its wide green. “Peter, if this is the university, half of the buildings are missing!” She stared at Peter in horror.

He raised his hands. “No. There has to be some mistake. Maybe we got turned around. Maybe ....” He stopped and stared. Across a dying wetland, he
could
see a city: of gingerbread houses and church spires, like an old postcard or a hand-tinted photograph.

He stumbled back. Rosemary caught him.

“Who’s there?”

The bellowing voice made them dive for cover. As they peered over the rim of the muddy embankment,
Rosemary noticed that they were in the middle of a deserted construction site. Large timbers were piled by huge stones and mounds of moved earth. A temporary wooden wall, made of planks, not plywood, hoarded everything inside.

Standing in the middle was a tall, stout man. Though stooped by time, he looked wary and dangerous as a wolf. He had a grizzled beard and fierce eyes. He held a plank like a club.

“Who’s there?” he shouted again. “Thieves? Vandals? If I catch you, you’ll regret it, you young ruffians!” He stalked toward the back of the site, crouching low.

“Where do we go?” whispered Peter.

“The front gate’s open.” She gripped his hand. “Let’s go!”

They charged over the embankment and ran for the gate.

“There you are!” They heard the thump and splash of the watchman in pursuit. He clambered over a pile of timbers and leapt into their path, arms raised and ready to fight. His eyes widened at the sight of Rosemary in her jeans and muddy halter top. “A w-woman?”

She ploughed into him, sprawling him in the mud. Peter ducked around him. The watchman struggled to his feet and followed, but only to the gate. Peter and Rosemary kept running until his shouts faded in the distance. Then they stopped and caught their breath.

“You okay?” Peter gasped.

“Yeah,” Rosemary wheezed. “Did you see the clothes he was wearing?” She stopped short. “We’re standing on a wooden sidewalk ... by a dirt road. What
is
this, the wild west?”

The narrow, gabled row houses loomed on either side of them. The silence echoed. Peter shivered. “I don’t think we’re in Toronto anymore.”

Then bells started ringing.

They peeled in all directions, shattering the silence, echoing off of brick and hill. Down the street, a squat church opened its Gothic doors and people streamed out. Men put on hats, women gathered up handfuls of skirts to descend the steps.

Rosemary fingered the tie of her halter top. The breeze chilled her bare back. Without a word, they turned and walked away as quickly as they could.

The bells stopped ringing, their echoes replaced by the new sounds of the city. Carriages rattled after hoofbeats, splashing and sucking the muddy roads. Hard soles clopped on the wooden sidewalks as crowds thronged like another form of rush hour. There was flannel and taffeta everywhere, lace and gingham. The underdressed teenagers hunched forward, willing themselves invisible. It didn’t work.

Behind them, an old lady cried out, “Oh my goodness, that girl is naked!”

Rosemary flushed.

Heads turned. People stared.

“Vagrants!” somebody else called. “Street urchins!”

“They’re filthy!”

Peter took a deep breath. “We’d better get off this street.” He stepped off the sidewalk.

“Peter, look out!”

Horses whinnied and veered. Peter staggered back, but the wheel of a passing carriage clipped his leg and sent him sprawling. He hit his head on the wooden sidewalk and lay dazed.

“Peter!” Rosemary knelt by him. “Are you ...”

He moaned and rubbed his head. “I don’t believe it. Never been hit by a car in my life, but the first horse and buggy comes along and whammo!”

Rosemary laughed nervously.

“Are you hurt?”

A young woman knelt beside them, her dark hair drawn back in a severe bun, but her face open and warm. She wore a plain cotton dress that didn’t match her finer hat and gloves. She pulled Peter into a sitting position and gave his head a quick but thorough glance. “You are not bleeding.” She touched the back of his head and he let out a yowl. “But you are going to have a bump, I’m afraid. How do you feel?”

“Okay, I guess.” He winced. “A little stunned.”

“Are you dizzy?” asked Rosemary. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Two,” said Peter.

The woman gave Rosemary a sharp glance, but
returned her attention to Peter. “No, do not stand up yet. Get your breath back into you, first.”

The crowd gave Peter and Rosemary a wide berth, creating a bottleneck on the sidewalk.

“Why don’t you leave those two alone?” snapped a man in fine clothes. “They should have been watching where they were going!”

The woman’s nostrils flared. “‘Whatsoever you do unto the least of my people, you do unto me!’ Did you not pay attention to today’s sermon?” The man dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

As she turned back to Peter and helped him stand, she added, “You
should
have watched where you were going. You walked right into that carriage’s path!”

“We’ll be more careful next time,” said Rosemary. “Thank you for helping us.”

“You are most welcome. My name is Faith —”

“Get a move on!” shouted a man with a tall black hat. “We don’t want your kind around here!”

“Scandalous that a woman should be seen like that in public!” said a middle-aged woman. “And on the Lord’s Day, too!”

“I’ve a good mind to call the constabulary!”

Rosemary flinched. The last thing they needed right now was police.

Faith glared at the crowd. “Is this how you would treat people in need? What does it say about us that we should live so prosperously while such poverty exists?”

Peter leaned toward Rosemary. “What’s with this woman’s accent? She sounds almost British. Everybody sounds British.”

Rosemary gripped his hand. A crowd had gathered, staring in bemusement at the underdressed couple and the dark-haired young woman who railed at passersby.

Then came the sound of running feet. “Police! Let us through!” The crowd parted, and two policemen strode in.

They wore dark blue coats with brass buttons, and bobby hats instead of caps. They smacked truncheons on their palms. Neither looked in the mood for a long explanation.

Rosemary tightened her grip on Peter’s hand. “Let’s get out of here!”

He stared at the constables. Faith was already remonstrating with them. “Run? But —”

Rosemary yanked him across the street.

“Hey! Stop!” The policeman brushed past Faith, leaving her staring after the couple, hands on her hips.

Rosemary and Peter slogged between horse and carriage, and then jumped onto the other sidewalk. They darted between people too startled to stop them, but the policemen, blowing their whistles with every breath, were hot on their trail.

“We have to hide!” Rosemary puffed.

“Where?”

They splashed across another muddy street and onto another wooden sidewalk. The crowds started to thin out, leaving the constables a clear line to follow them.

“Alleyway,” Rosemary gasped.

They turned a corner, and were on a street lined with stores. The crowds were all but gone now, and all the stores were closed. There was a sign at the corner, fixed to one of the buildings. Peter stopped and stared.

“Yonge Street?” he exclaimed. “But it can’t —”

Rosemary yanked him back into a run. “Come
on
!”

They dashed across the street, jumping over two sets of tracks running up the middle. They leapt across the sidewalk and into the sanctuary between two brick buildings.

The alley smelled of wet brick and rot. The walls towered two storeys above them and stretched to the next street. The nearest cover was a dark doorway, hidden by a pile of abandoned crates. They knelt on the drenched stones and held their breath.

They heard the approaching swift footfalls, hard soles on wood. There was a blur of blue past the alleyway, then the footfalls faded into the distance.

When silence came, Rosemary flopped onto the doorstep. “Okay, take stock. Where are we?”

Peter sat beside her. “Well, we fall down a hole, trek through an underground tunnel, and come out into this crazy place. Did you pass any rabbits running late?”

Rosemary let out a terse laugh. “We didn’t walk too far, so we’re still in Toronto. We shouldn’t be too far from Theo’s apartment, in fact.”

Peter took a deep breath. “We’ve run for blocks. Theo’s apartment was right downtown. We should have seen the skyline by now.”

“Where do you think we are?”

He shrugged, but didn’t meet her eye. “I just passed a sign that said Yonge Street.”

“So?”

“I know Yonge Street. It’s the main street of Toronto. It doesn’t look a thing like this.”

“Peter ...”

“What if the reason we haven’t seen the skyline is because it hasn’t been built ... yet?”

She stared at him. “No way. It’s not time travel. That’s impossible.”

Peter reached behind the crates and smoothed out a wet and crumpled sheet of newsprint. He pointed to the banner. “
The Globe
. August 28, 1884. What do you say to that?”

“That paper can’t be from 1884! It hasn’t yellowed —”

“It wouldn’t have yellowed if we were really in 1884 now, would it?”

She glared at him. “It’s
not
time travel!”

He sighed. “Okay. Alternative theories: A historical film shoot.”

Rosemary clapped her hands. “That’s it! That would explain the clothes!”

“And why half the city is missing.”

Rosemary drooped.

He looked at her slumped shoulders. “We
could
be inside a studio, I suppose,” he offered.

Rosemary looked at the sky. “If so, that’s one heck of a matte painting.” She hugged her knees. “It’s not a studio, is it?”

“No.”

“Oh God, Peter. What are we going to do?”

“We’ll go back,” said Peter.

“How? The police are looking for us, we stick out like sore thumbs, and we just about got stoned to death!”

“We’ll sneak back,” said Peter. “We’ll wait for night.”

“It’s going to get cold! It wasn’t nearly this cold back at Theo’s place! We’re going to need ropes and ... and flashlights!”

“I got bad news for you there.”

She thumped his shoulder. “Be serious! What are we going to do?”

“Well ...” He pursed his lips. “It’s going to take time.”

She stared at him. “We can’t stay here. Theo would go out of his mind!”

“I don’t think Theo knows we’ve gone yet.”

She blinked. He went on. “Think about it. We were in that cavern for how long? Thirty minutes? Long enough for
Theo to notice we were gone. But if we’ve fallen through a time portal, then the rules are all out the window. Maybe only a second has passed on Theo’s side. Theo may not even have heard the fall yet.”

“You mean, we’re on our own.” Her voice was very small. She shivered. Peter reached out and held her close. She clung to him, and pressed her face into his shoulder. After a moment she pushed him away, clearing her nose with a sniff. “So, we’re on our own. Fine. Let’s get to work. We need lights. Torches or something. And climbing equipment.”

Peter drew himself up. “We’ll need food, first,” he said. “And shelter. And new clothes. And a bath. We aren’t going to get very far looking the way we do.”

“So, we find work.”

He frowned. “How are we going to find work looking like we’ve rolled on these streets?”

“Then the first thing we do is beg for clothes, or beg for money to buy clothes.”

“Right,” he said. “You lead the way.”

They crept to the end of the alleyway and peered out at the stores. The mud-and-plank street stretched away on either side of them, with two tracks in the middle but no streetcars in sight. No overhead wires, either. Shops lined the sidewalks, their display windows dark and curtained.

“Yonge Street, huh?” Rosemary shook her head in disbelief.

“That’s what the sign said.”

“But nothing’s open.”

“’Course not,” said Peter. “It’s Sunday.”

She glanced at him, so he explained. “Sunday shopping laws? The last ones weren’t repealed until the early nineties.
Our
nineties. They get a lot stricter the further you go back.”

Rosemary shook her head. “I leave Clarksbury to go to the big city and I end up in Clarksbury Senior.” She sighed. “Why do these things happen to us?” She couldn’t keep the whine out of her voice. She looked at him.

He thought a long moment, then shrugged. He held out his hands, palms up.

“But I blame you,” he said.

She glared at him, then her frown eased when she saw his grin. She looked back south and pointed. “That store’s open.”

A grey-suited man, swinging his cane, walked up the plank sidewalk. He doffed his hat as he stepped into the doorway of a shop in the middle of a row of buildings.

Peter shrugged. “Proprietor? Some owners lived above their stores.”

Then came the sound of a cane rapping against a door.

“The owner wouldn’t knock.” She stepped onto the sidewalk.

Before she’d taken two steps, Peter pulled her into the shadow of another doorway. He pointed.

Following the well-dressed man, a group of four boys in their mid-teens, wearing caps and sneers, sauntered up the sidewalk. They paused at the store he had entered, and then meandered into the street, kicking stones over the wheel ruts. A stray stone clattered onto the sidewalk outside their hiding place, and one of the boys ran for it. Rosemary drew further back into shadow, but the youth caught the movement like a blue-eyed cat.